Spirited
by dreykar
Summary: From a young age John realised that not everyone could see the cold people. That's what he called them as the room would often chill before they would appear or there were the times he happened to touch them and the icy feeling would chill him to his bones.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is my first story in a year a half. I think I may have found some inspiration again but it has been difficult. Please enjoy :)

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From a young age John realised that not everyone could see the cold people. That's what he called them as the room would often chill before they would appear or there were the times he happened to touch them and the icy feeling would chill him to his bones.

They weren't there all the time, it wasn't as though there was a constant battle to tell who was real and who was 'one of those'.

They were just a part of life, as certain as Christmas coming in December or the mad rush to pack before family trips no matter how much time you had

The way he processed it was that there was the shadow he used to see moving around the shed at his grandma's house. The little girl under the tall oak at his old primary school, everything below her shoulders was always faded out. There was the bad feeling he used to get at the doctor's office, just the one consulting room. Then there was the man at his cousin's house who only came out at night and left bruises on his arms and only left if he screamed loud enough to call others.

As he grew he was able to distance himself from it but there was no leaving it behind.

After Afghanistan he felt a little closer to their world: colder, sadder and drained. He hoped it was just in his head, that it was just a symptom of the other things going on in his life.

Once he met Sherlock Holmes and fell into the madman's crazy world things were warmer, happier and had more energy. The people were still there though and how do you explain that to someone?

Around two weeks into their new life together Sherlock and John are sitting at the table eating breakfast. Well, John is eating, the detective is draining his second cup of tea for the day having been awake all night.

Sherlock is eyeing John, pursing his lips before breathing deeply through his nose. "What's wrong with the flat? There's something about the flat that unsettles you".

John finishes swallowing his toast before looking his friend directly in the eye and determining the best answer. He realises only honesty should be used. "I usually prefer to live in a building a bit more modern. One with less history, you know. It's fine-this-" the wave of his hand seems to encompass not only 221b but their new arrangement together "-is fine. Don't worry about it"

"Something about it bothers you" he murmours, leaning back in his chair and tenting his hands below his chin, ready to solve this new puzzle.

"I wish you were as perceptive about what needs to be tidied around here". But there was no response.

That day John had been honest, there really wasn't a feeling of activity around the house. Obviously it felt like an old place, but he didn't consider himself psychic, he didn't really feel an energy around things. No, he wasn't strange, it's just every so often he saw or experienced ghostly activity.

It was around the time of the case he'd go on to name as 'The Blind Banker'. The kitchen started to get a 'funny' feel. Just something that didn't sit quite right. Sherlock had been a bit bored and had been doing a number of experiments and he wondered if perhaps there was something he was using that he was allergic to or something along those lines. A thing that gave him a slight reaction.

It was when he found Sherlock using pliers to remove the fingernail from a severed hand he realised where the feeling was coming from. Whoever that belonged to wasn't fully haunting them but they were around in a way.

"What are you doing?" John demanded, slamming the shopping onto the floor in front of the fridge.

Sherlock paused and look up immediately, mouth slightly open as though he were a small child caught eating biscuits before dinner. He quickly moved his features into a look of defiance. "Experiment. I do experiments".

"Right. And this can't happen at the hospital? Wait- you did get this from Bart's didn't you?"

"Yes, it's from Bart's" the detective snapped, why did people always assume the worst? "Wait-where are you going?"

"Out. Somewhere. I'm going out. I've been meaning to have a pint with Lestrade, I'll see if he's free"

"Tell him I saw his wife-"

"-going now". At this John swept out of the room and stomped down the seventeen stairs. If it wasn't enough he slammed the front door as he left.

Sherlock thought things through for a moment then continued. Most people would have left for good at that, John was only popping out for an hour or two. All in all that went well.

Soon after this situation one night they were walking back from dinner across a bridge when John stopped listening to Sherlock talking about something from his university days. He saw a man around his early twenties standing on the ledge, holding himself up on a lamppost embedded in the handrail as he sobbed with great despair.

Sherlock noticed John's expression and stopped talking, looking from his friend's face to where he was looking. "John, what is it? What's wrong?"

Walking closer was when the doctor noticed that he could see the lights on the other side of the river through the man's jacket. Ghost. He sighed as he heard the man's anguished wails, knowing that there was nothing he could do. This was just a reply of past events.

"Thought I saw something" he replied in an empty tone, averting his gaze from the jumper. "The light was playing tricks".

"John?" Sherlock began softly, eyes moving from side to side as he tried to see what his friend saw.

"Come on, if we hurry I can catch the end of the match on the telly".

He knew that it wouldn't be much longer that he could keep his secret from Sherlock but he was able to for a little longer.

It was the day of the 'gas leak' explosion on Baker St, mid afternoon. They had both been snapping at each at other all day. Sherlock was in what John would learn to be one of his black moods, his 'bored' moods.

Everything the other did set off a reaction. John said he'd do the washing but Sherlock wouldn't get out of the pyjamas that he'd been in for the last three days so nothing was done.

Sherlock asked if John could pick up milk the next time he was out. It led to a half hour argument about how far the shops were in walking steps of all things. Sherlock was adamant it was a better form of exercise for John as his legs are shorter.

The flat was freezing, they had the fire going and the thermostat on full.

By 3pm John couldn't take the atmosphere any longer. "Going for a walk. Be back later". He didn't think Sherlock even heard him.

A few hours later when John found the head in the fridge the anger and unsettledness in them both started to make more sense. Once it was removed things went back to normal. Yes, Sherlock was a lot better because he had a case but John and everything in general was calmer.

After they'd dealt with 'The Woman' Lestrade called them in for a murder in a house very similar to the one with 'The Pink Lady'.

As soon as John walked in he could feel chills run down the back of his neck. He stopped walking and Sherlock, who for once was behind him, ran straight into him.

"Watch where you're going, John!" he snapped and walked into the third story living room.

"There you are" Lestrade greeted. "Wondered when you'd show up. Right, here's what we know so far…" he spent the next few minutes going over what they knew about the victim.

It was five minutes before anyone noticed that John wasn't in the room.

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A/N: I hope you've enjoyed this so far. Any feedback would be appreciated, it's been a while since I've written something and I'm trying hard to get back into it. Thank you :)


	2. Chapter 2

For five minutes Sherlock inspected the body and the room when all of a sudden the portable lamps lighting the scene flickered and extinguished. As the house was abandoned there was no connected power meaning that the building was pitch black with only small slivers of moonlight through the windows that weren't already boarded up. There was a large bang from a room a floor below. 

Lestrade spoke first "Oh for f-" 

"-John, lend me your torch" Sherlock demanded and held out his hand behind him as he crouched next to the body. He looked like a relay runner expecting the baton. He heard no response. "John!" he repeated in frustration. Hurry up! They were wasting precious time! 

"John?" Lestrade queried sounding perplexed. "Not here, mate. Haven't seen him today. You sure he...". The DI trailed off as Sherlock stood and turned around in a circle as he held his phone at arms length and used its dim glow to light the room, coat spinning around him. 

Sherlock frowned and headed towards the door as he used his mobile for light. "Hope you were taking notes" he muttered at Lestrade who waved his arms up slightly and let them fall back down to his sides, a pen in one hand a notepad in the other. 

"No, I was playing Pictionary" Greg sighed, but the detective had already disappeared down the hallway. 

There was an array of officers moving quickly around the corridors with handheld lamps and torches. Sherlock moved through them, they were all going the other way trying to get light to the murder room. He picked snippets of their conversations as he went past in his search. 

"...then the camera cut out. Full battery too…" 

"...such a creepy place, can't wait for a coffee break..." 

"...phone keeps cutting out, can I borrow yours?" 

Idiots afraid of the dark, Sherlock thought to himself, but he took note of their concerns. You never knew what minor piece of information could be the key to the puzzle. He made it down to the floor below. The footsteps and chatter from above was loud down here as the officers rushed about and it made it difficult to pick up the small noises surrounding him. He checked a couple of the rooms then his eyes flicked towards a locked door in the middle of the corridor. 

He stepped forward, placing his ear on the wood and could hear John's muffled voice. He was about to call out to the man to come out when the door began to shake violently and the knob moved back and forth, he must be trying to get out. Good, that saved having to ask him. But suddenly there were loud banging noises coming from the room and the floor started to shudder, Sherlock realised that these could have been the crashes that they had been hearing upstairs. Perhaps the murderer was still inside? Oh no. 

Sherlock dove forward and tried to open the handle but it seemed to be locked. He started pounding on the door as he heard a few yells from inside. "John!" he bellowed. "John!" 

Sherlock heard the man call out again. Why wouldn't the door open? As it shook in its frame Sherlock noticed there was light spilling out through all the gaps around the sides. Where was this coming from? It was bright, incredibly bright, what was causing this? 

The consulting detective tried turning the doorknob again with everything he had. As he looked down to study it he noticed that he could see his breath in the air in soft, cloudy puffs. It was June, outside the temperature was mild, definitely not freezing cold. What could cause this? 

The handle twisted and twisted then finally all the sounds stopped, the light completely cut out and the door stilled. Sherlock took his chance and swung it open only around a second after all movement ceased. John was on the floor on the other side of the room, how had he been rattling the door only a second ago? Simple, it must have been whoever was still here. He had a cut on his cheek and the beginnings of a black eye and was breathing heavily while shaking hard. 

Sherlock had taken all that in over a fraction of a second. Next he was using his phone to light up the room, there was a small amount of moonlight coming in through the boarded windows but that data was telling him there was no one else here and that couldn't be possible. 

John was saying something, his name- that didn't help right now so he tuned it out. He wasn't in any immediate danger so he could wait. Didn't he understand that he was trying to catch whoever had just done this and that was what was most important? He looked at all the corners and any dark patches in case they had left through a tunnel or a gap in the wall. But how would they have escaped without him seeing? There was no way John could have been touching the door from his distance across the room. 

"John, where did they go? Was it the murderer? I don't think it would have just been a junkie living here. If it was-" 

"-Sherlock" John breathed again. The softness in his voice made Sherlock stop and look him in the eye. 

The two of them gazed at each other properly for the first time since they had arrived. John seemed incredibly drained and showed real fear. 

"Sherlock" he tried to get up but his leg locked up and he fell back to the floor. "We need to leave. Now" 

The consulting detective walked over and helped his blogger up. "Which way did they leave? I can't see a secret passageway but that doesn't mean-" 

"-you're not listening" he explained slowly and carefully. "We have to go. Now" 

"What did they say? Did they threaten you?" 

John began to walk towards the door but watched the ceiling carefully as he did so. "No, we had a polite conversation about the weather and I read him his daily horoscope". He turned back to his friend, black eye highlighted by the moonlight. "What do you think?" he said with bite as his strength began to return. "We're leaving" 

Sherlock took in one more scan of the room but then followed John out into the corridor then into the street while continuing to ask questions about what had happened but he received no response. Paramedics pushed past them. 

Sherlock turned swiftly on his heel and asked Donovan who'd been injured. 

"Constable knocked unconscious. The stand for a heavy light must have been unstable because it flew towards her and split her head open while they were trying to get them working". She narrowed her eyes "Where were you?" 

"Nice try, Sally. I was inspecting a room John had found. Perhaps your officers can learn how to do a proper sweep of a property? Or do you like suspects having the element of surprise over you?" 

Donovan finally saw that John was there. "What happened to you?" 

He ignored her and directed his question to his friend. "Perhaps I should go up there?" 

"There's a full paramedic team. I'm sure they're fine" Sherlock replied, waving a hand to dismiss the issue. He wanted answers and that wasn't going to happen if John went and played doctor upstairs. He was needed here. 

"You're the one that needs patching up" Sally offered, nodding towards his minor injuries. 

"I'm fine" John explained shortly, pumping his left hand in and out of a fist while he looked up at the first floor windows. 

"You look like you've seen a ghost. What the hell is...". Donovan trailed off as three large black vans pulled up, the back doors opened violently and a task force spilled out and ran towards them. "What the hell is going on, you can't go in there!" Sally called out but they ignored her. 

A man in a suit walked up. "Sergeant Donovan, may I have a word?" he began to walk off and Sally followed although she didn't look happy about it. 

"We were talking!" Sherlock yelled after them both but neither turned around, his frustration began to boil over. "I know exactly what is going on here, but why? Why!" 

Next Lestrade burst from front door, he saw Sherlock and raised an accusing finger. "Right! I've just got off the phone from your brother..." 

Sherlock already knew this had Mycroft all over it so he tuned Lestrade out and his hand dove into his trouser pocket. His phone displayed: 

_Leave now. Don't make a scene. _

_This investigation is no longer your concern MH_

Why would the government be interested in a simple murder of a local man whose head was repeatedly slammed into the floor. A man, 3 adult children, no new hobbies, worked at the local newsagency...he wasn't special at all, why did he matter this much? Maybe this wasn't about him at all... 

"John we're leaving! I need to think!" Sherlock called out, turning his back on the still yelling Lestrade who was going red in the face. 

But John was giving a statement to a man in a suit. What on earth did John see?

A/N: Thanks for reading. I'm just getting back into writing. Feedback is welcome.


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